


Shepherd Michael Versus the World

by pengiesama



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Gen, Humor, Pre-Canon, Tales of Berseria Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 10:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17262635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pengiesama/pseuds/pengiesama
Summary: The Shepherding life is a lonely one indeed, but Michael thinks that he's probably got more problems than most.(Written for Zinestiria, a Tales of Zestiria fanzine!)





	Shepherd Michael Versus the World

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for Zinestiria! Check out the other fic and art entries here:
> 
> AO3 Collection: <https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Zinestiria>  
> Tumblr: <https://zinestiria.tumblr.com/>  
> Twitter: <https://twitter.com/zinestiria>

 

\--

 

From the very moment he and Muse were tossed into the Aqueduct together, he expected trials. He expected hardship. He expected and accepted all of it, and took up the Shepherd’s vow so Muse didn’t have to suffer the burden. He took it up so he could cut through the suffering of a world breaking under its strain. It was something that he knew from the start, from the moment he laid his hands over Lailah’s on the holy sword and yanked it from the pedestal.

All things considered, though, Michael couldn’t really have predicted things to go exactly like this.

“Please. Explain to me again why you were in the depths of the Shrinechurch,” said the Pendrago guard. “Now that the scribe is here to take the statement, I’m sure the church officials would love to have your tale in writing for posterity.”

Now, Michael knew that he was rather young, still. He’d only been doing this Shepherd thing for a year and some change, and most people when asked to describe a “Shepherd” probably...wouldn’t be able to at all, considering there hadn’t been one in years, but in any case, they wouldn’t immediately jump to “thirteen years old and short for his age”. But this guard that had chased Michael down through the Shrinechurch looked like he barely had a few years on him, and also looked like he was trying way too hard to make himself look older than he was. That patchy attempt at a beard was doing him no favors. 

Michael stared the guard dead in the eyes, and repeated his statement.

“I was acting on the direct order of the Great Lord Maotelus. He told me to bring him booze, then he stole my journal and made me chase him through the Shrinechurch Labyrinth.”

“You tell ‘em, Mike,” Maotelus slurred in his ear, still drunk. “You tell those pigs that you don’t talk to cops. Don’t sell me out.”

Michael really wanted to know why Maotelus wasn’t helping more. He was, in fact, making things worse. In addition to being a rowdy, belligerent drunk, Lailah had to pretend to not see him; making her unable to offer her brand of questionable assistance as well. She was off twirling around in the corner with her hands over her ears, humming loudly to herself. For the umpteenth time in his short Shepherd career, Michael found himself on his own.

The guard was _smirking_ at him as the scribe took down Michael’s statement. For his part, the guard clearly could not see the disaster unfolding around Michael. (That was probably for the best. Michael was not in the mood to serve as spiritual counselor to someone having a crisis of faith over the fact that their religion’s head god was an alcoholic, kleptomaniac child.) But that _smirk_ – if Michael was the smiting type, that smirk would have been sorely asking for it. It made Michael want to grab him by that terrible beard, to share some of this resonance of his and make him fall to his knees in holy terror.

“Quite a story, indeed,” said the guard.

“It is,” Michael agreed. “You must like it, since you’ve asked me to repeat it about four times now. But if you keep forgetting the details, you might want to take a break. The heat in that tin can you’re wearing must be going to your head.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, then relaxed. Such self-control. Michael had gotten slapped around by guards for much less, in the past.

“Please, go on,” the guard said indulgently. “What happened next, after you chased down this divine encounter? Speak slowly and clearly, so we’re able to present the full story at your upcoming blasphemy trial.”

“Mike. Mikeeeyyyyyy,” Maotelus patted and poked at his cheek repeatedly. “You know I was just foolin’. Just joshin’. Just havin’ a grand ol’ time. I’m no kleptomanicalcoholic.”

Michael’s hands were bound behind his back, and even without this factor, there was no sharing of resonance to be done with Lailah…currently incapable of acting as a mediator. Michael could make this guard fall to his knees via other methods, though. For example: Michael lunged backwards, kicking his feet out and up to land a solid hit on the guard’s crotch. The guard yelped and collapsed to the floor in pain, giving Michael enough time to roll to his feet and summon the holy flame to burn the bindings on his hands. The flames licked up his arms; painless, but causing him to appear ablaze in a radiant inferno. His hair and cape swirled about his face and body in the superheated air. The terrified scribe, clearly deciding that this was out of his paygrade, dropped his supplies and fled for the Shrinechurch’s exit. Michael quickly snatched up his confiscated belongings and weapons, and rushed for the exit himself. 

“Youuu...” groaned the guard, trying to stumble to his feet even with thoroughly bruised balls. “Stop...in the name of...his majesty...”

Michael paused in his flight long enough to spare a glance back at the pathetic heap sprawled out on the marble floor. Just a power-tripping teenager, desperate to prove himself – desperate enough to march around with that terrible beard, even. Michael could almost find it in his heart to feel sorry for him.

“On the honor of the Platinum Knights…on the Heldalf family name...I won’t let you escape...” 

Well, the rest of the day was an utter wash, but he could at least make a stylish exit. Michael flicked his Shepherd cloak back, and planted his feet wide.

“The Shepherd Michael has evaded your capture today, good sir Heldalf, but—”

Maotelus let out a whoop, and smashed his empty liquor bottle over Heldalf’s head; knocking him out cold. He threw up the horns with his fingers, then slowly, ponderously fell backward like a felled tree; collapsing to the marble floor and falling instantly asleep. Humming idly to herself and leaving behind a trail of origami creatures as she went, Lailah finally wandered back over to Michael’s side.

“How was your visit?” she asked, deliberately ignoring her indisposed master on the ground. “I do hope it was worth the long walk.”

“The architecture of the Shrinechurch is as fascinating as I’d imagined,” said Michael. “Plus I stole a ton of stuff from the library.”

“How splendid,” Lailah said warmly. “But it’s good that we finished up so quickly. I’m afraid our schedule is quite...booked.”

Lailah snorted, and wheezed a donkey laugh as she reveled in her wordplay. Michael eagerly joined in, slapping his knee and cackling. 

“Booked! ‘Cause I—I got a whole ton of books and we’re busy!” Michael finally managed to get out between gasps for breath. “Wait, wait. I got one too. Lailah, you know, I read a book on Mount Killaraus the other day.”

“Oh?” Lailah replied eagerly, clasping her hands in anticipation. “How was it?”

“It was a real...cliff-hanger.”

The sounds of their laughter, and the sounds of their continued puns, echoed off the high ceilings of the cathedral.

 

\--

 

“...and having to listen to those awful jokes for three hours straight was what first set me on the path to malevolence. The end.”

“Why did you just tell us that story?” Mikleo asked, tiredly.

Maotelus hiccupped and took another drink from the champagne bottle.

“I’unno,” he replied.

Mikleo rubbed his face with his hands and lowered his forehead to the tabletop. Sorey winced, and touched his back gingerly to confirm he hadn’t just laid down and died on the spot.

“Your other half is the one who asked me to speak at this shindig,” Maotelus pointed out. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a dessert buffet that needs some purifying.”

With that, he waddled off with the champagne bottle clutched between both hands; looking like an overgrown, overdressed toddler clutching a bottle of milk. He disappeared into the crowd of guests at the reception. Sorey let the peaceful moment stretch on for a moment before he spoke.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Sorey said. “That’s nowhere near the worst story he’s told me.”

 

\--

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Zinestiria's admins and participants for letting me participate!
> 
> (zinestiria is a gen zine but if you try to interrogate me on whether i snuck in mikleo and sorey's wedding at the end i'll just spit in your face and ask for my lawyer)


End file.
